


Operation Play Time for Rodney

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcshep_match, First Time, Humor, M/M, Team Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wants to help. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Play Time for Rodney

**Author's Note:**

> I was a pinch hitter for the 2010 McShep Match, skidding in under the wire and writing like the wind, so if this story is legible (much less enjoyable) that credit goes to my wonderful betas, altyronsmaker and shakespherical. They saved me from grievous grammatical errors, pointed out small difficulties (like, oh, a complete lack of character motivation *face!palm*), and kept me from using slang words that do not mean what I thought they meant. This is my first SGA story, and it was a lot of fun to participate in the Match, so I just hope everyone enjoys it. Thanks go to the organizers for having faith in me! Brief aside: I played fast and loose with Rodney’s backstory, and this is set “sometime in season four let’s do the handwave!”

It had taken a while – okay, nearly three years, but John wasn’t exactly counting – for him to realize that everything he and Rodney did for fun was some kind of competition or challenge. Video golf, RC cars, chess…Rodney kept spreadsheets with scores, rankings, and test results, his tongue poking out while he typed in the data, smiling smugly or frowning at it depending on the outcome. Even movies and television shows were more like trivia contests, winner take all. Rodney was having _fun_ , but it was not as if he was relaxed about it. This suited John and his own competitive streak, though, so he didn’t have a problem with it. Competition was a guy thing, after all, and while Rodney was hardly a testosterone-laden example of traditional manliness, he was still a guy.

Eventually, though, John clued in. After all that time playing The Game in the lower levels, it was a stupid video golf match that taught John possibly one of the most important lessons about Rodney McKay: he never shut down. Watching Rodney attack video golf or RC cars or chess was just like watching Rodney build a bomb or take apart ancient technology; he was “on” and thinking and _working_. All. The. Time.

It was possible that Rodney’s idea of “play” was simply different from anyone else’s, since after all he was a very special kind of genius. John knew Rodney enjoyed his job, at least sometimes, like when they discovered the personal shield, but it bothered him that Rodney didn’t seem to comprehend the true value of goofing off. There was just no way that was healthy for anyone.

John pushed back the question of why he cared quite so much.

\---------------

“I…you…what?”

John nodded solemnly, as if they were having a real discussion, which they were not, because John was insane and Rodney did not have discussions with crazy people. Well, not on purpose, anyway.

“No. Absolutely not. I have not ever, nor will I ever, need to know how to roller blade. I don’t care what insane toys you had the Daedalus bring you, or who you slept with for them.” Rodney waved his fork around, almost losing his macaroni and cheese before stuffing it into his mouth. That matter settled, he checked the simulation he had set to run on the tablet propped up next to him on the table.

“ _Rod_ -ney…”

“What?!?”

“It would be good for you.”

“It would also be suicide, or something even more painful. No. No?” Rodney looked meaningfully into what were the blank, empty orbs of John’s eyes, which was a ruse because he knew John was not _that_ vapid. “What part of ‘no’ is proving difficult for you today?”

“It would be fun!”

“Lunatic.”

\----------------

Fortunately, John was used to crashing and burning both professionally and personally. He pretty much knew Operation Roller Blade would fail, but it was a test of Rodney’s resolve as much as John’s ability to sweet-talk. As usual, his success at sweet-talking was in direct proportion to how well the target knew him. This was how he got his reputation for hitting on complete strangers, because the women who actually knew him pretty well? Totally not falling for it. Same for the men, or particularly Rodney, who might willingly follow John into a loaded hive ship if John just asked, or especially if John did not ask, but ended up throwing food at him (food! Although McKay insisted he just lost control of his macaroni and cheese) when John tried to segue into roller blades for the third day in a row.

So it was time to step back and use his brain. Despite Rodney’s lamentations to the contrary, John knew he had a decent brain to work with.

\----------

 _Meredith’s parents loved taking him to playgrounds in the local parks, but when he showed no love for the slide and a distinct avoidance of other children instead preferring to play tunes obsessively on his toy piano, they decided he might be autistic. Meredith was almost three by then, and it was a torturous few months of tests and more tests before he convinced them and the doctors that he was just brilliant with a genuine dislike of pointless things like playgrounds and_ slides _. Or even worse, swing sets, where you could swing. Back and forth. On purpose. Forever._

 _He concluded that only morons enjoy that kind of repetitive pointlessness (it was a lesson that served him well when he finally began supervising his own minions)._

 _Instead of killing brain cells with the Swing Set of Redundancy, Meredith took his homework out to the dirt mounds behind the monkey bars (so very aptly named, he thought) and studied there, in peace. Studying on the playground went against the grain of every adult around him, who were unanimously and inordinately fond of things like swing sets. Meredith noticed that they suspiciously never actually played on the monkey bars themselves, though, so he ignored their squawking. If the teachers were lax that week (they usually were) he would bring a book from home, often something to do with music theory or math, but he understood the value of taking a break from the serious work so occasionally he tucked one of the volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica into his bag for fun._

 _He finally broke free when he turned thirteen and went to college, where there were no playgrounds (but a lot more monkeys)._

\----------

“Rodney!” John called out as he walked into the lab, a towel over his shoulder. Rodney was not an easy sell for anything involving submersion in water, but John hoped the newly-discovered hot tub spa in section 34A might tempt him. Loosen him up, even. It was not the end goal, but might be a start. John bounced a little, trying to radiate enthusiasm rather than bleak despair, because in truth he did not expect much out of Operation Whirlpool, despite his pair of lucky Marvin Martian surf shorts.

“No!”

“No?”

“That’s right. No.” Rodney glared at him from over the top of his monitor in full defensive mode.

“Pre-emptive ‘no’.” John clarified.

“Yes…I mean, correct. That’s correct. ‘No.’ Pre-emptively.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure…why?”

“Just asking.”

Rodney flapped a hand at him but stared at his monitor, hunched over defensively. “I’m just saying, nothing good ever comes when you’re in a pair of surf shorts.”

“Heh.” John snorted, because Rodney made it all too easy, sometimes. He was only human.

“What?”

“You said…”

“OH MY GOD! Are you twelve? Go away! Working! Radek? Throw him out!”

“Eh, no. I find Colonel Slinky in surf shorts a pleasant distraction.” Zelenka leered at John, one expression John could have lived his whole life without seeing on the Czech scientist.

“Leaving now!” John double timed it out of the lab, realizing that he might be taking the wrong tack on this whole project.

\------------

“What do you think he is up to?” Radek whispered over the top of Rodney’s monitor, looking furtive and somewhat like a weasel. As usual.

“Who?”

“Colonel Slinky.”

“Since when did you start calling him…ohhhhh. Clever. You have an evil mind.” Rodney smiled approvingly. He really did have the best staff ever.

“Evil _genius_ , thank you.” Radek corrected him, and Rodney shrugged. He could be magnanimous. Radek grinned at him. “Straight men, they can’t take the kitchen.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “The _heat_ , they can’t take the heat in the kitchen…never mind. Still, clever.”

“Still, he is up to something.” Radek frowned, and Rodney hated that expression, because it only meant trouble for him, personally, one way or the other.

“Who knows? Weren’t we working before he came in here? Didn’t you get that…”

“Yes, yes, I did – I was waiting on you to…”

“I did that, over there. There. THERE!”

\-------------

“You sure have a lot of music on here.”

Rodney froze in the bathroom doorway, clutching his towel around him. “You! Hey! This is my room!”

John looked at him like _he_ was the crazy one, and not the one caught breaking and entering during a man’s sacred shower time. Then the bastard smirked. “Yeahhhh. I know.”

“And that’s my personal laptop!”

“It was sitting here. Open. With music playing.”

“Oh and what next? My drawer is open over there – do you want to sniff my underwear while you’re at it?”

John’s ears turned pink, and Rodney quickly ducked back into his bathroom in order to get dressed without humiliating himself or ruining their friendship, or more likely, both. Typical. Now he was trying to hide a hard on when he was only wearing a towel, and it was not his fault that he had some kind of adolescent teenage girl crush on John’s blushing elf ears. He yanked on his clothes and marched back out, trying to get angry, but that had some kind of weird feedback loop to his testosterone levels and with John looking post-work-out dewy and glowing, Rodney knew he was doomed, doomed, doomed.

Fortunately, John was absorbed by his music collection. Rodney thought it was particularly excellent of course, but hardly something that a musical philistine with a passion for Johnny Cash might appreciate.

“What is this? 80 gigs of classical music?”

Ding, we have a winner. Rodney sighed. “Yes, Colonel. Concertos. Symphonies. You’ve heard of those, right?”

Sheppard didn’t rise to the bait. “This is what you listen to all day?”

Rodney froze. He could not explain this, not easily, and he was not sure he should even try. But John was _looking_ at him, all dewy and glowy and serious. Doomed-doomed-doomed.

“No. I…I can’t listen to music while I work. It’s like trying to do two opposing maths at the same time. I mean, I can, of course I can, but it’s distracting when I need to focus.”

“So listening to classical music is like listening to math?” John asked slowly, his eyes flitting back to the laptop screen. It was probably one of the most insightful things that Rodney had ever heard in his life, and he stood there like a love-struck fool, staring at John, who had perhaps gotten the particulars wrong but nonetheless was the first person to ever grasp the general concept.

“Yes.”

\---------------

There was something important about that discussion, other than Rodney’s initial appearance wearing nothing but a towel and making suggestions about underwear sniffing (Jesus! John was still adjusting himself half a day later). After chewing on it for a while, John decided that the key here was that Rodney needed to be able to focus on what he was doing enough that he forgot to think about it. Counterintuitive conclusion, but John knew he was right. The obvious choices were math and music, and maybe chess, but John knew how that would go: more like work than play in each case.

His main problem was not a lack of ideas, but Rodney’s aversion to them. Hell, the only reason John knew how to surf was because Stanford had been so difficult that he had to work off the mental stress somehow, but throwing Rodney out the back of a jumper with a surfboard strapped to his ankle was…really appealing, actually. But no, he needed to be subtler than that.

\---------------

 _His parents loved to listen to him play, even it if was just another set of miserable scales he was bludgeoning into submission. They were very strict about him finishing his homework and outside tutorial work before practicing, though, because they knew once he got on the piano he would ignore everything for the rest of the night. It was enough to get him to stop long enough to eat, and they quit trying to drag him to the dinner table by the time he was eight and just took a plate of food to him. Sometimes, secretly, he felt guilty about that, because while they thought he was working so diligently at becoming better, most of the time he wasn’t. Most of the time he was lost in the music and completely oblivious about things like what time it was or Jeannie’s latest baby-girl crisis or stupid teachers or playgrounds full of monkeys._

 _The truth was, he just liked to play._

\----------

It did make him feel more like a pimp daddy than the military commander of Atlantis, but there was one thing John knew for a fact: no man – none – could keep thinking while having sex. Rodney’s brain needed a vacation, and if sex was the necessary medicine, then Rodney’s best friend John Sheppard was happy to write the prescription. What he needed was that perfect mix of available, alluring, and temporary, because the last thing John needed was Rodney suffering another romantic disaster like Dr. Brown. In fact the key factor was _temporary_ , someone to do the job and then get the hell out. John was Rodney’s best friend, but he wasn’t exactly happy about sharing him, which was as far as he was going to explore that particular emotion in context.

He scanned the incoming personnel from the recent Daedalus run for what he needed. Or, rather, what Rodney needed. Not that John was unwilling to take matters into his own hands – and damnit, he could not think like that while standing next to Carter or, really, anyone – but he knew Rodney’s type pretty well by now, and in no way did that include “brunette, with dick.”

And there she was, absolutely perfect. Maybe a little more “hourglass” than “lithe supermodel”, but blond and buxom (what was in the water in Sweden, anyway?) and brilliant. Slightly arrogant with a no-nonsense attitude, she just screamed “McKay bait” to John. He all but rubbed his hands together after they were introduced during her orientation session. Sure, every Marine within the city borders had tuned to her wavelength as if they were equipped with Swedish Bombshell Radar, but as far as John was concerned, Dr. Hjerdstedt was special cargo meant for Rodney, and Rodney alone.

He asked Dr. Hjerdstedt to join him (and Rodney) for dinner in the mess that night, and ignored the aisle of raised eyebrows he got as he walked out of the control room on a cloud of expectations. Operation Get Rodney Laid was going to work, he just knew it. And if there was something snarling and unhappy in his gut about the whole idea, then it was just probably the lumpy oatmeal from breakfast.

\------------

“If you…” Rodney snapped at into his radio as he dodged people loitering in the hallways (did no one here work? Ever?) on the way to dinner. And John, but mostly dinner.

“I will. Good bye.”

“Just try to…” Rodney stopped when he heard the click of Radek turning his radio off. He would have to talk to that man about why they had radios in the first place, as he clearly did not fully understand the concept. Sighing, Rodney pushed into the mess hall and froze.

John was sitting at a table smiling like the Devil himself at someone who was clearly Marilyn Monroe’s long-lost sister. Or daughter. Whatever. Hard to tell from the back, but Rodney saw enough.

 _Smiling_. At her.

Rodney ground his teeth in a purely platonic manner and went to get his tray of food. He could not actually identify what he was served, because he could not take his eyes off of the heartbreak at John’s table. Specifically, Rodney’s heartbreak, because this was exactly the kind of Kirkish behavior that had kept Rodney’s own libido in check regarding John Sheppard. There was always going to be the next gorgeous, tall, perfect woman on the horizon, even if John was willing to foray into “gay for Rodney” territory which was not exactly a given anyway.

Rodney dropped his tray onto the table, next to the goddess and across from John, who gave him a brief, confused look.

“Hey! Glad you could make it!” John grinned.

“Oh, really.” Rodney deadpanned and ignored the blond. Although she did look somewhat familiar.

“Roodney!”

Rodney turned to stare at her. “Inika?”

“Roodney! Oh! Good to see you!” She slapped him on the back, which was like being hit with a hockey stick, and Rodney moaned in pain, trying to figure how he could have ever not recognized the unforgettable Dr. Inika Hjerdstedt. Of Skellefteå. Oh God, this was a disaster. He looked over at John, who was looking back with a strange mixture of crestfallen disappointment and confusion.

“Ha! You did not say Roodney would be joining us.”

The wicked witch of Sweden was laughing like the hag she was, elbowing Rodney in the side. Then, _then_ she leered at him. “I see why you wanted to _eat_ with the _Colonel_.”

Rodney eyed his mashed vegetables with a thought to face planting into them.

“Uh, I see you know Dr. McKay,” John said uncertainly, looking at Rodney as he spoke.

She smiled back, that brilliant white-toothed smile that laid waste to mere mortals everywhere, but John seemed unaffected. “I do! I was guest lecturer with him at MIT!”

John, surprisingly, seemed to brighten up to this. “Oh really? So you two already get along?”

Which, what the fuck? Rodney frowned.

“Ohhhh yes. Not a bar in Boston we did not ransack. Oh my pretty, pretty Roodney! You had such curls then!” She fondled his hair and he cringed, aware that the entire room was staring at them. John’s jaw had dropped about a foot. “No man could resist you! And you know this, eh, _Colonel_?” She leered at John, who flushed an almighty scarlet and nearly fell out of his chair, plowing out of the room with barely a word other than “gotta go bye.”

Rodney sighed as Inika frowned at John’s swiftly retreating back.

“Thank you, thank you so much for the outing.” He tried glaring at her, for all the good he knew it would do. She was like Swedish Lesbian Teflon.

She turned and laughed at him. “Pffffttt, Roodney. Everyone knows you’re gay.”

\-----------

John paced his room for an hour: too wound up to do anything other than pace, fuck, or shoot something. And that was just how fantastically awesome his plan to get Rodney laid had worked, that he had managed to get Rodney outed _in the mess during rush hour_ while also discovering that Rodney was not as straight as he claimed. So that was pretty much the same thing, but one version had more personal impact than the other.

“Personal impact” being a new addition to his private list of phrases never, ever to think about ever again.

There was a single, loud whump on the door. “Open up.”

John groaned. Rodney. Of course.

“No.”

“Oh for…” There was some clanging and knocking about, and then John’s door opened anyway. Rodney stepped in far enough for the door to close behind him then stopped, arms folded. “So. This is it? Find out I’m bisexual and you what, flee the country?”

John rolled his eyes and decided the best defense was a good non-sequitor. “I was trying to set you up with her.”

“I mean, I understand your military is--what? With _Inika_?” Rodney squawked.

John tried not to look relieved that the distraction was working. “One, I had no idea her first name was Inika. Two? I obviously did not know that you two knew each other. Three, aren’t you supposed to know who is rotating in?”

“I saw her name, I knew she was here. I just…didn’t expect to see her until tomorrow at the Science Department orientation…” Rodney grumbled defensively.

“So, you were basically going to hide out from her for, what, her whole six month rotation?”

“That was the plan, yes.”

John folded his own arms in mirror of Rodney’s posture. “How old were you when you two were guest lecturing at MIT?”

“I was 23. She was, what, 27? I think? She’s…really smart.” Rodney finished lamely and crumpled against the door, his shoulders drooping as his arms fell to his sides. They stood like that for a few moments before Rodney sighed. “Set me up? You’re usually the one cock-blocking me.”

John felt his ears heat up but stayed determinedly on course. “Yeah. I…you just…” He waved a hand around, hoping that Rodney’s genius would kick in. Of course, when he really needed it, Rodney failed him.

“I what?”

“You don’t…you’re so…all the time. Thinking.”

“Wait, you were trying to get me laid because I think too much?” Rodney squinted distastefully.

“Something like that?”

Suddenly the neurons started firing, John could almost see Rodney fitting all the pieces together. “Roller blades? Surf shorts? And that stupid game of hide and seek you tried to pass off as a team building exercise? This is all about trying to get me to…to…have fun?”

“Maybe?”

“We have fun all the time! We play chess! We race cars! We run from crazy native people trying to boil us alive in strange ritual tubs filled with lobsters! What’s the matter with you!?” Rodney waved his arms, flailing to the point that John thought he might fall over.

John shrugged. He could not even begin to explain himself, and he knew to quit while he was already losing.

“This discussion has _nothing_ to do with me being queer, does it?” Rodney peered at him.

“Honestly? No.”

“And you were really trying to set me up with the hot blond Swedish chick?”

“Your drinking buddy Inika. Right.”

Rodney looked thoughtful, almost pleased. “That…that’s…something.”

“I thought so.”

“But pointless. I never stop thinking.” Rodney pushed off from the door and went to sit down at John’s desk.

“Ever?”

Rodney shrugged. “Well, you were on the right track with sex. I mean…uh, in general.” Rodney blushed and cast a quick, furtive glance at John. A flicker of something warm kindled in John’s stomach, and he walked over to the desk.

“You can’t think _all_ the time. It’s not good for you. You gotta take a break. Everyone does. Turn your brain off and relax.”

Rodney heaved a put upon sigh. “Yes, it’s called sleep.”

“No, it’s not.”

Another sigh. “No, it’s not. Okay, look. I’m just different, don’t you get that? Big amazing brain, remember? It doesn’t shut off. Ever. For anything. Most anything. I mean…” A blush crept up his neck.

John shifted until he was leaning against the desk, his thigh pressing against Rodney’s knee. “Yeah. Sex. You mentioned.”

Rodney looked down to where their legs were touching and then stared out the window, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Uhm. So.” His blush rose up over his cheeks.

John could work with that.

\-----------

Rodney’s mind reeled, rocked in the rhythm of John’s hips slamming into him. He was nowhere near coming, not yet, but he was past the point of caring. Past the point of knowing anything other than heat and pleasure and the smell of John on top of him, shoving into his body and his skin and stealing his breath away. It was enough, this rare moment of thoughtless bliss, and Rodney gave himself over to it with a whisper of John’s name and then he was simply gone.

\-----------

John had never fucked anyone with such a sense of mission behind it. He wanted Rodney; it was not mechanical or heartless. John kissed him and breached him and fucked him like climbing a mountain, slow and steady and carefully. Nothing could go wrong, John was not going to let it, not now, and he drove into Rodney with the intention of keeping at it all goddamn night if that was what it took.

But Rodney was ready, as if he had been waiting for this – for _John_. At some point deep into it, he simply whispered John’s name with a glazed expression and turned off.

John, sweating and vibrating with the tension of holding himself to a steady rhythm, felt Rodney’s reaction like a shockwave; Rodney’s body began moving instinctively, rolling under him while Rodney grasped at his arms with sweaty palms and moaned in deep, throaty whines, nothing controlled or considered or planned. John was too wired to laugh but he smiled inwardly at finally seeing Rodney lost in a zone that did not involve higher mathematics, drifting in his pleasure.

John had no idea how long they were at it. Not long enough, but his thighs were screaming in protest anyway after a while, and at some point Rodney got feverish and greedy and began stripping his own dick quickly and grunting nonsensically. He watched John fuck him, staring at where John’s cock pistoned in and out of his body until he came with a shudder and a groan. John’s body tripped instinctively at that and he curled down over Rodney, convulsing in a powerful release that left him gasping for air. He fell to his elbows and sucked on the skin at Rodney’s collarbone while Rodney squirmed and writhed in the aftermath, still too far gone to complain about his back or their sweat or the smell. John knew it was just a matter of time, though.

John, silent except for labored breathing, slipped free of Rodney who whimpered as he lowered his legs. John rolled over so he was against the wall, wrapped his arms around Rodney and pulled until his back was settled against John’s chest. They were still hot and slick enough with sweat that it felt comfortable, although John refused to call it cuddling.

After a while, John felt Rodney take a deep breath. “I never understood playgrounds.”

John frowned in confusion, but gave Rodney a small squeeze of assurance. Somehow he knew to stay quiet.

“The slide. The swings. You go up, you go down, you go up, you go down…like, playing scales for no reason.”

Which, okay, time to get vocal because that made _no sense_. “What?”

“Like practicing over and over for nothing, just to go do it again. Go down the slide. Again.” Rodney sighed, his hand miming doing down a slide over and over. Then he stopped and his fingers wiggled in the air. “But you…what you said earlier. Makes sense.”

John sifted through the 1,000 things he had ‘said earlier.’ “About?”

“People turning off their brains, enjoying themselves without thinking about it. I don’t get that. I can’t do it…well, outside of sex. And the piano.”

“Piano.”

“Is this some kind of personal best? How many times can you respond with one-word answers?”

John had no idea what he meant about the piano. “No?”

Rodney snarled a little and shifted backwards, pressing John into the wall. “I’m trying to tell you to stop it already. It’s pointless. I have to _think_ , I can’t stop. I mean it, I can’t just turn off. It doesn’t work that way for me.”

“Except for sex. And pianos. This is why you like classical music?”

“Yes. No! What? Yes to the sex. No to the…oh my God, you’re doing this on purpose.” Rodney sighed and collapsed onto himself, which just put that much more pressure on John squished against the wall.

“No, actually, I’m not. I have no idea what pianos have to do with this conversation. Unless you’ve got some kind of kink?” John tried to imagine handcuffs and pianos, and failed. He could feel McKay’s teeth grinding, though.

“I played piano. I quit not long before I went to college.”

“Really? Okay, okay, calm down. You played piano, check. Any reason you’re bringing this up now?” John took one of Rodney’s hands and studied it, trying to imagine them moving over a keyboard. It was surprisingly easy. Rodney did have pianist hands, perhaps not quite elegant but long and strong, and John wondered why he had never noticed before.

“I’m trying to explain, but you keep interrupting.” Rodney huffed but let John continue the exploration of his hand. “I played piano until I was twelve. I was a prodigy, you know, started plucking out tunes on my toy piano when I was three. Took lessons after that. But my final instructor – beautiful woman, very well known pianist actually – told me my playing lacked the passion needed to go anywhere with it.” He paused to yawn.

“Soooo…you just stopped?” John asked incredulously.

“Right. Concentrated on physics. Something I could succeed in, make a difference.”

“Win a Nobel.”

“Well, obviously. But playing…I could just, get lost…sometimesss…” Rodney kind of slurred the last words, and John realized they had moved into the post-coital passed-out-sleep phase. He shoved Rodney around a little until they were settled, Rodney making grumpy noises as he sprawled half over John, face down into his shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around John’s waist.

Sex and pianos. Somehow, that totally made sense. “Operation Secure Steinway” was born.

######


End file.
